


He dreams in colour, he dreams in red

by autoschediastic



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Daddy Issues, Deleted scene: Catch you in the drift, Dirty Talk, Incest, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Power Dynamics, Son Issues, Tit Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 04:40:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Playing off a manual only goes so far and Herc's become his the same as Striker has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He dreams in colour, he dreams in red

A few bruised knuckles, a bitten lip, and a scalding shower later, the bitter prickle under Chuck's skin eases. He'd been warned the sting of the first failure would be his last, but he’s still standing, and the worst of it had nearly passed before Herc came nosing around. Smoothing away Striker's newest scars always tempered his own, and for once the first words out of Herc's mouth weren't a scathing put-down. The hope that Herc's next move would be to pick up a broken piece and help fit it back into place was Chuck's own fault. _Who are you_ rings louder in his ears than the screech of torn metal. What the fuck was that supposed to mean, no one knew Chuck better than his old man. And if there’s one thing Herc's taught his son well is how to roll with the punches that never stop coming, so he did.

The familiar echoing thud of footsteps dogging his now are just more of those. He keeps his gaze front and centre as Herc falls into line beside him. Air whistles sharply through Herc's teeth on a drawn breath and Chuck keeps walking, shaking free the tension sparked between his shoulders in preparation for the next blow.

“Just hold up a minute,” Herc says.

“Gotta head out,” says Chuck, keeping his voice steady through the warning crackle in his chest. “Hydraulics are still shot, unless you fixed 'em.”

“Chuck-”

“Yeah, didn't think so.”

A hand lands on Chuck's shoulder and for a minute it's like being in Striker, action without thought. Herc's back is to the wall in seconds, Chuck's arm across his chest the only distance between them. The sudden heat of Herc's body pressed close burns through Chuck's gut, stirring embers that a quick tussle with a crewman could never bank, not before he found out exactly how his old man liked to fuck and definitely not after. But Chuck didn't stop to think then, or a half hour ago, either. That he never stops to fucking think is what's ringing in his ears when he looks straight into his father's eyes.

“Look,” Herc says, slow and measured. His arms are loose by his sides. He takes another breath, not as steady. “Ease up. I just-”

“Want to kiss it better?”

Herc's eyes go hard. “You watch your mouth.”

“Little late for that one, too.” Chuck drops his gaze, letting it catch on the little tremble at the corner of Herc's mouth. He's pretty sure he could. Right out here for anyone to see, and Herc would let him.

“ _Chuck_.”

“Dad.”

Chuck's still watching when _boy_ starts to form on Herc's lips, and even though it dies there, the shudder it sends rippling through Chuck doesn't. It shakes his hold enough for Herc to shoulder free. The loss sends a wrench through him and he thinks about letting it take him down. About facing his father on his knees here, and which direction Herc would stumble.

Herc's pale beneath the drivesuit's burn. When Chuck crooks what's barely a smile he shivers like Max shedding water, turns, and walks away.

“Never mind then?” Chuck calls to his back, with a cheery, “Right, see you later!” before he slams sore knuckles into the wall.

He should've known.

*

The walls are too thick to hear if Herc's slunk back to his bunk yet, but Chuck stops outside the door just the same. The long stretch of hours since he saw his father last hasn't doused the resentment left simmering in his gut, only given it time to dig in deep. He's not sure why Herc's so hung up on mulling over shit so long that it starts to smell. From where he stands, thinking's never done either of them any good. He's got a crack about Herc thinking them both to the grave ready to fire off as he opens the door; it dries up on his tongue the second he steps inside.

Their room smells like Striker's conn pod, metal and heat and sweat, and the strange electric scent that clings to his skin for days after a drift. It's the last one that hits him hardest, because it's not coming from him, it's coming from Herc, stripped down to the waist sweating it out in pushups on the floor at the foot of their bunks. Herc doesn't look up, doesn't pause, so Chuck sets a shoulder against the open door to watch. He lets the burn spread.

Seven more in, Herc's knuckles red and raw against warped metal, Chuck asks, “Feel better yet?”

Herc answers, “Close the damn door,” between one pushup and the next.

Chuck lingers until the cadence of Herc's breaths includes a low warning, then shoves off the frame to ease the heavy door shut. For all the miles Herc's got on him, his form's still straight, his rhythm steady. The light's changed with the door shut, shadows sharper, the lines of his muscles cut deeper. Chuck settles his back to the door, stance wide and open. Hands slung in his pockets, he says, “Hey, Dad.”

Barely a hitch, Herc says, “Yeah.”

Not a question and not an answer, but the hot prickling rush under his skin thinks it is. “Stand up, old man.”

Herc's head drops on an irritated breath. Nothing's for sure yet, and that adds a sweeter tinge to the thrill when Herc's legs curl under him and he slowly rises. Chuck tightens his hands into fists to control their shaking. He's lost count how many times this has gone his way already, but the adrenaline push isn’t any weaker than the first time he’d figured out what made Herc tick.

There are eleven steps from the door to the bunks, less between him and his father. Herc's snagged the towel off his shoulder and is using it to wipe his hands while Chuck counts the paces off in his head. On four, Chuck's knuckles graze the hair curled low on Herc's belly. On five, the damp band of Herc's sweats. Six, and it's the soft heat of Herc's cock.

Herc's next warning is a low, “Boy,” and that's no warning at all.

“Turn around,” Chuck says, watching the shift of his own fingers curling inside Herc's shorts. If any of the heat left in him is anger, Chuck can't tell. Another thing Chuck's learned is that Herc gets the shakes as much from lust as from rage, and the salt of his skin tastes the same either way. “Come on,” he prods. “Turn around.”

The huff of breath Herc lets out isn't relief like giving in, but the quiet shuffle of his bare feet is. The cotton of Chuck's shirt sticks to the hot skin of his back as Chuck pulls him close, fingers stretched out to comb through tight curls. He closes his eyes to picture a body he knows as well as his own both in the drift and out of it, but feeling the slump of Herc's cock slowly going thick from this side always hits Chuck like the first time.

“Still pissed at me?” Chuck asks. He gives Herc's pubes a little tug, _aw, c'mon, don't be_ , not sure anymore what's got his dad riled up but willing enough to let it go if Herc is. Another tug earns him nothing, but one more gets him Herc's hands, slack by his sides up to now, clenching tight. Could be it's not fair using secrets gained through snatches of memory against him like this. For the longest time, those were all Chuck had. He’d played them over and over in his head until they were instinct, ingrained as deeply as the Academy's sims. Before he knew the feel of Herc's body in his hands, he knew where to touch, how to make Herc shudder, curl close, want more, the same as he learned Striker. But playing off a manual only goes so far and Herc's become his the same as Striker has. Now, Herc moves for him.

Hooking his chin on Herc's shoulder, he pulls at Herc's sweats, watching the shadows fall away to show his fingers buried in the tangle of Herc's pubic hair, Herc's cock thick but nowhere near hard. “Jesus,” he mutters, meant for the sharp twist that hits him right behind his navel. He adds a careless, “Gonna have to get a little something to give you a hand soon, old man,” to dull the edge, as if Herc doesn't already know what all that bare skin, the hot smell of it, does to his boy. As if Herc can't feel it pressed hard against him.

“So do something about it,” Herc growls, staring straight ahead, “instead of running your fool mouth off again.”

Chuck says, “Yeah,” on a shaking breath. “Yeah, could put my mouth on it, you'd love that.” He fans his fingers out to rub around the root of Herc's cock, twisting his own stomach tighter with anticipation. But self-control's never been where he shines, and if Herc isn't going to make him dig up a scrap of it, the effort isn't worth the trouble. He shoves Herc's clothes out of the way and takes his cock in a firm, dry grip, feeling the instant kick and surge that fills it out. “Not gonna watch? Tell me I'm doing it wrong? What the hell's the matter with me, huh, figure I've fucked around with enough sweaty, half-hard pricks that I'd know how to get one up by now.”

Nothing. Chuck forces the clench of his jaw into a smile, makes sure Herc can feel it against his cheek. The familiar scratch of Herc's stubble almost makes it a real one. Used to be Herc was clean-shaven and smartly pressed, all those shiny medals on his chest like armour. This rough version is better, grime-streaked and still a tough bastard but with more chinks for Chuck to worm his fingers into, take hold.

“Okay,” Chuck says. “Your way, alright.” He presses a kiss to Herc's cheek that Herc's going to think is a joke until it hits him in the drift, and Chuck makes sure the scratch left lingering on his lips is fixed firmly in his memory for Herc to find later. Some of the things shared between them are just an endless loop passed back and forth so many times that he's forgotten who owned the thoughts first. Sometimes he's sure that's the point.

Herc’s way is Chuck’s hand planted firmly in the middle of his back to give the old man a shove towards the wall. A low curse when Chuck shoves again still isn't a no, same as Herc's arms coming up to brace against the dented metal wall between their bunks isn't. That's what all of Herc's _no’s_ are; half-assed _yes's_.

“Better?” Chuck asks again, running his hands up Herc's sides as he gets back in close. He finds a peaked nipple to catch and twist, another trick picked up from the dark corners Herc sometimes still tries to hide. If it weren't for those, Chuck would give another tweak, maybe two, and move on. Get to the good stuff. But Chuck's felt the throb in his own chest, a weak echo of flesh pinched sore, so he shoves aside the urge to get Herc's sweats out of the fucking way and brings both hands into play. Just his palms at first, pressed flat to rub at Herc's nipples. Then a light scratch, another twist, a whole catalogue of sensations one after the other until he knows without looking that Herc's cock is standing up straight and hard, precome leaking all the way down the shaft to soak his balls.

There's one Chuck got to find out first-hand. Even a good long blow, hands and mouth and Chuck's whole goddamn face in there, doesn't get Herc half as horny as playing with his tits does. “My old man's a slut,” Chuck says, using the toe of his boot to edge Herc's feet further apart. “Not a hell of a lot of people know that one, do they? Yeah, a couple of 'em know a big fat one crammed up your arse gets you drooling all over yourself. Bet that's all they know.”

“Still mouthing off,” Herc says, the tail end of it a hiss as Chuck pinches one nipple tight and doesn't let go. There's a lot of gear out there easy to get if Chuck wanted. Clamps, cuffs, gags, shit he's seen in porn and inside Herc's head. Stuff he's felt wrenching a howl from Herc's chest same as if it was his own. Chuck pinches tighter, twists his wrist barely a fraction, and Herc's legs shake. Hands-on is what sticks like barbs in Herc. A hard slap against Herc's asshole already fucked red and puffy stands out as brightly in the drift as the whole fuck itself.

“I know you're dying for it,” Chuck says, dragging his hand down Herc's belly until it bumps against Herc's dick. He bypasses a handful of that in favour of stuffing his hand down the back of Herc's sweats, fingers sliding easily into the crack even with Herc's shorts still in the way. He rubs at Herc's hole through thin cotton and lessens his grip on Herc's nipple at the same time just enough to let a scrap of blood flow to it. Herc's whole body jerks. “Bet you're wishing I'd shut the fuck up and stick you already, huh?”

Rubbing harder, Chuck turns what could've been yes, no, or just another curse into a sharp grunt. The cotton's thin enough for Chuck to feel the tender heat of Herc's body through it. Another little push gets Herc growling, “ _Boy_.”

“Your boy,” Chuck says, the flip of his stomach echoing that first rush of the drop. He's got more to say, always a last word to give when it's him and Herc, but the way Herc's hole twitches under his fingertips makes him pause, swallow a breath before he can. “Your boy knows all you want is a dick prying you open.”

Herc's head bows. He doesn't have a thing to say now that Chuck's fingers are edging under cotton, tracing along the crease of his thigh, wedging into the crack again with nothing in the way. The muscles of his back stand out in sharp relief as he holds perfectly still, waiting. This is how the old man begs. In the drift, Herc's stillness is a desperate, writhing thing, clutching hands and an endless spill of words. The weeks it took Chuck to figure out that disconnect are weeks he could've been breaking Herc of a stupid habit taught to him by an endless parade of faceless fucks that were too caught up in the thrill of a Ranger ass-up in their bed to realise what they were missing. Idiots, all of them. Always too quick to give Herc exactly what he wanted.

The noise Herc makes when Chuck drags his hand free is bitten-off, muffled, and nowhere near the kind of sound he's capable of giving up. Chuck cups a rough hand over Herc's cock, holding it pressed tight to his belly, smearing skin wet as he drags Herc's sweats down. Herc kicks free of them before Chuck's got to tell him, and if Chuck were one of those power-hungry morons, he'd slap Herc for it. As if the harsh sting of a bare hand on his arse isn't exactly what Herc's aiming for.

Chuck's palm is damp when he lets go of Herc's cock, not even a tug to ease some of the ache. The edge always suits his old man best, means that when Chuck touches the hard line Herc's mouth has thinned down to, lips instantly soften, part, allow Chuck to push the taste of his own precome onto his tongue. Herc's never liked the taste of it, his or anybody else's. Probably never will, even when Chuck's craving for a fresh, hot load spilled directly into his mouth has seeped into him through the drift. But he licks Chuck's hand clean just the same as Chuck idly rolls his balls in the other hand, waiting for Herc to work up the spit to make his fingers glisten.

“That it?” Chuck says, rubbing thumb and forefinger together in front of Herc's face. He shrugs when Herc grunts and lets go the thin skin pinched between his other fingers. “It's your arse. You want it like that, though, could've just asked for it dry.”

Herc's back rises and falls with each long, deep breath. “Guess that means I don't,” he says, like his spine isn't curved, ass raised and legs spread. Like his breath doesn't catch deep in his chest when Chuck worms a hand between the press of their bodies to find his hole again, barely rub it wet before pushing up inside him all the way to the knuckle. For a minute, Chuck's torn between just stuffing him full of as many fingers as he can take--all of them, Chuck knows, Herc would take all of them and relish the burn--and fucking him loose with just one. The decision's made for him when Herc grinds back, pushing Chuck's wrist hard against his dick and the pressure on Chuck's knuckles making his fingers curl tight, the one inside Herc pulling against tender flesh.

“Go for it,” Chuck says, easing back slightly, giving him the space to ride it. Light plays over shifting muscle, catches on the fresh sheen of sweat just starting to slick Herc's skin. Chuck's mouth tingles with the taste of it as he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to Herc's shoulder, as he drags his tongue down to the meaty curve of Herc's armpit. He bites there, takes his finger out of Herc and puts two in its place. Herc rocks up on his toes, a harsh groan torn out of him as he hangs there for a split-second then pushes slowly, steadily down, forcing his body to take what a bit of lube would've made slide into him as easily as if he had a cunt between his legs.

The thought makes Chuck pull free again, spitting on his fingers this time. He gets his hand back on Herc's cock as they sink in again, playing at the head only long enough to gather up a bit of slick to stroke down over the shaft. Herc's thick and huge in his grip, almost as hot on the outside as he is on the inside. “Should make you come first, old man,” Chuck says, mouth back on Herc's shoulder. There's a fading bruise beneath his lips that could be from the battle at Sydney or the aftermath of it, both of them riding on the adrenaline and the drift, when no touch was hard enough to let them sink into each other's skin. “See how long it takes to fuck you hard again.”

Herc drags in a breath, says, “Not long,” on a slow exhale. Chuck digs his teeth into the bruise and knows part of Herc is going to see that as punishment, part of him as reward, and all it is to Chuck is a way to keep from shoving Herc down and fucking him on the cold, bare floor. Herc's knees buckle and lock. Chuck urges him to straighten back up by the fingers inside him, the pressure that makes him want to crumple even further forcing him slowly up. There's too much still churned up inside Chuck to let this be over so fast.

“All you ever want is a fuck,” Chuck says, driving his fingers deep. “Couldn't fucking care less about getting your own dick wet, and that's a shame, Dad, it's a nice dick. Big, thick cock like that, bet some of those pricks you've rolled with would've loved to climb up on it.” The sounds caught low in Herc's chest start to shake free, forced out on the hard smack of Chuck's knuckles against his arse. It's easy after all this time to find the rhythm that makes those noises crank higher in pitch. Steady but not slow, firm but only a little rough. “But all you want is somebody to fuck your hole loose and sloppy for you. You want me to do it. Your boy's come dripping down your legs.”

“So do it,” Herc grates. His hands are curled into fists against the wall, his chest pushed nearly flush to it. “You want your dick in your daddy, you stop talking about it and put it there.”

Used to be a time that was all Chuck needed to hear. He'd slick up, shove in, fuck until they were both stripped raw. But Chuck's a better soldier now than back then. Good at following orders but better still at following the ones nobody wants to utter, the ones between lines crossed. He grabs at the scruff of Herc's neck, squeezes tight while he yanks one-handed at his belt. Herc's posture firms up, stance wide, braced. Ready.

Chuck's as wet at the tip as his cock-hungry whore of a father is but he spits in his hand anyway, lets the noise of him slicking up ratchet up Herc's spine. Herc's deep enough in this that he reaches back wordlessly with one hand to grab at a cheek, bare his hole. His nerves catch fire like this, Chuck knows. He's felt it in the drift like ants crawling under his skin, the molten mixture of shame and anticipation and a deep, twisted pleasure. Herc likes to be watched, stared at, laid bare. Herc moans when he's told he's going to feel this, he's going to take it all and afterwards he's going to feel his hole, touch it to find out for himself exactly how sore it is, fucked wet and swollen, so that's what Chuck tells him. All the sharpest memories of Herc's are sunk like knives inside Chuck's head, goading, urging him to settle in close, let his cock ride the crack of Herc's ass, the head barely even bumping over Herc's hole before sliding away again.

“Boy,” Herc tries, less a growl than a groan now, all the warning leached from it. His breath cuts out entirely when Chuck hooks an arm around his chest, hauls him in tight by a splayed hand.

“You want this too?” Chuck asks, fanning his fingers wider, letting them brush one after the other over flesh still peaked and flush with blood. “Thought I forgot, didn't you? Thought I was one of those piss-poor fucks that don’t remember to play with your titties once they’ve got you stuffed full.”

“Thought my son was going to make good on a promise,” Herc says, low and torn, as if he hasn't said it a hundred times before, as if he hasn't dug blunt nails into Chuck's shoulders, ground out _yes, that's it, fuck daddy like that, that's my good boy_ , open-mouthed and gasping. As if they both haven't relived the memory together, growing hard in their drivesuits and fighting to shake it off before they have to go save the world again.

Chuck spits on his hand again, a couple times over, soaks Herc's crack, the insides of his thighs. Fingers him again briefly, thick knot of three shoved in without warning because that's what makes Herc's spine arch and voice break. That's what makes Herc obey without question when Chuck murmurs, “Thighs together for me, daddy, nice and tight,” into the crook of Herc's neck. A shift of his hips gets his cock sliding into the hot space between Herc's legs, Herc's balls bumping soft and slick against the head. The sound Herc makes when he pulls his fingers free almost hurts it's so sweet, like the hard crunch of candy between Chuck's teeth. He wipes them off on Herc's hip because he can, because Herc's a filthy fucker and it'll hook in his guts, twist him tight inside. Because he wants his grip secure when he brings it back to Herc's chest, mounds flesh roughly between his fingers and digs the edge of his nail in.

“Not enough?” Chuck asks when all it earns him is a quiet grunt. He lets go of Herc's tit and pinches at just the nipple hard enough it mottles white. He keeps the pressure on until Herc's knees buckle again, Chuck's cock slipping free from the tight clench of his thighs. When the only thing keeping him up is the wall, Chuck lets go. A few brisk flicks spikes the whine deep in Herc's throat to a wail; another pinch cuts it off. “Gonna bruise,” he says, soothing with the flat of his palm. “Want me to suck on it for you? Kiss it better. Unlike you, I’m pretty good at that.”

“Said all I wanted was a good fuck,” Herc says, hissing as Chuck's fingertips sweep close again.

Chuck's fingers stop short of their goal. “You're right,” he says, nuzzling at the back of Herc's neck. He lets the flat of his arm rest heavily against Herc's chest, making sure he’s got the pressure on the sorest places before he brings his hand up to grasp lightly at Herc's throat. A few fingers fanned over Herc's jaw turns him towards a kiss that's barely the catch of their lips but it lights up like wildfire in Chuck's veins. He lets more of his weight rest against Herc's back, traps him between cool metal and hot flesh. He wets his dick and slots it back into place, gives a few slow, lazy thrusts to get the spit drying on Herc's thighs damp again, and asks, “What kind of jackass doesn't make good on a promise like that?”

Herc's answer is a sharp breath, either from the pain sparked in his chest or the sharper snap of Chuck's hips, and Chuck doesn't care much which one. He'll find out the next time they deploy. He'll feel exactly how much Herc loved it not from the low noises Herc's making but from the inside out, and he wants to make the memory a good one. He holds Herc pinned, hand still at Herc's throat, and lets his other hand wander as he fucks Herc's thighs, tracing the groove of muscles gone shallower with age on Herc's belly, tangling his fingers in Herc's pubic hair again to give a harsh tug. He brings his hand back up to toy with the swollen flesh on Herc's chest, drops it down again to cup Herc's balls, measure their weight and fullness and press them firmly back against the head of his cock. He sucks at the bruise on Herc's shoulder, pulls blood sharply to the surface to stain it a brighter red, and every noise that slips from Herc only makes him dig in harder. He gets lost in Herc's body, in the way Herc's begging has turned from that false, quiet stillness to gasps and groans and a shaking hand holding Chuck's tighter to his throat.

“So good,” Chuck says, finding it easier drift after drift to say the things Herc won't. “So fucking good, Dad, such a good fuck.” Herc's thighs squeeze tighter in response, knocking the breath from Chuck's lungs. Everything is heat, slick skin, the catch of Chuck's clothes on sweat. The stubble on Herc's jaw rubs Chuck's lips raw but still he kisses it, rubs his face against it as he wraps an unsteady hand around Herc's cock. The second his fingers close on hot flesh he steadies, fucks into the clench of Herc's thighs, uses his body to drive Herc hard into his fist. He used to wake sweat-soaked and aching from dreams like this, but even fuelled by the drift they were nothing like the reality of Herc's cock throbbing in his grip. The noise Herc makes when he comes is the sweetest one yet, wrenched free, breaking as he coats both the wall and Chuck's knuckles white. Chuck doesn't let go, doesn't stop until Herc is shaking with it, and even then, he only slows his hand to focus instead on the orgasm building inside his own belly. A harder thrust is all it takes to flatten Herc to the wall, smearing him with his own mess, and then Chuck's adding to it, coating Herc's balls, his thighs, pulling back a little more to fuck through it, make sure it slicks Herc’s crack too.

They hang like that for long minutes, Herc caught in Chuck's grasp as the tension slowly seeps away. Chuck eases him around with a gentle nudge, rubs an even gentler hand over his still-thick cock, up through the mess on his belly to touch his face. His jaw is slack, eyes closed, lips dried from his ragged breaths. Chuck wets them with Herc's own come and kisses it away before a furrow digs deep between his brows. “See, Dad,” he says, kissing Herc's lip again, “that's the part that kills you. I don't have to be a better person. I don't need to be.”

“Chuck,” Herc says, lashes trembling like he doesn't want to open his eyes, but he does, slowly. Chuck digs his thumb under the hinge of Herc's jaw to keep his head from bowing again and takes another kiss, one that Herc gives up these days as easily as he gives up his body to Chuck's whim.

“I don’t want to be a better person than you,” Chuck says, and chases the kiss with the taste of spunk licked off his thumb.

Herc says, “That's not what I meant.”

“Yes it is,” Chuck says, and steps back, letting Herc sway without his support. He gives Herc's flank a light slap and turns away, plucking the towel Herc had dropped and heading for the shower. Satisfaction sits in him warm like a brick. “You just wish it wasn't.”


End file.
